Haven't you, just once, wanted to be the star of the show? Think of it. The Spotlights. The huge stage. The APPLAUSE.

I've always been a closet exhibitionist. Ever since I can remember one of my fondest memories involves standing alone on center stage. People in the audience are wildly clapping and smiling, rising to their feet in one motion, shouting for an encore. Rose petals are strewn at my feet and huge bouquets are thrust in my hands.

My fantasy does not actually go so far as to let me in on what I have done to receive these accolades. It doesn't really matter anyway. I am a star.

This of course is another cautionary tale from my life. Here is what actually happened....

I was living in Chicago and the local high school's Booster Club was having a fashion and variety show to raise money for the school.  Parents, teachers and community leaders were given the chance to "turn the tables" on the students and produce an event for them.

At the time I was the Editor of the Hyde Park Herald, thus qualifying me as a "community leader." I remember thinking that this was my dream come true. Perhaps the meaning of my fantasy would be revealed. Perhaps I would be given a standing ovation. Perhaps, I, with a voice that actually sounded like a thousand cats dying, would be asked to sing.

The fashion show was to feature clothes from a boutique that had as its clientele "Cosmo Girls." The dress I had my eye on was orange crochet, reached the floor, and had an inset of beads and ropes in the center. Cosmo girls are usually tall. Think Heidi Klum back in the day. I am 5' 2" without shoes. With shoes doesn't make that much difference.

The dress which would have looked beautiful on a tall, slender woman made me look like one of those hanging baskets for plants. Time was running short. I had to find an outfit and had to find it fast.

"That one is beautiful," pleaded the salesperson, with tears in her eyes. "I'll wear it," I shouted. I did not try it on.

That night we were scheduled to rehearse at the school. I received what can only be called the casting call from hell. Would I be willing to act in a skit along with modeling the dress? Well, duh.

What was my part, I asked. I knew I could handle Ibsen.

"We want you to play an Alka Seltzer."

The night of the rehearsal went smoothly. I knew my cues. I knew my turns. I was a model. I was an actress.  For heaven's sake, I was a STAR.

The evening of the show the dressing room was chaos. A few of us (well, me) had not actually tried on the clothes we were to model. And, we were told that some of us would go on in pairs, some in threes and some alone. At the rehearsal I was part of a threesome.

I put on the dress, torn from the rack at the boutique. Not only was it four inches too long, if the spotlight shone through it just right you could see all the way to Lake Michigan.

We all waited anxiously in line backstage for our names to be called. "When you go on as a threesome, put your name cards in the order you will appear and give them to the announcer. He will read your name and describe your outfit while you model," said a disembodied voice.  

My group consisted of Susie Smith, a charming teacher, and another equally charming teacher, Joe Blow. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.  We took our places and waited for our cue.

Did you ever feel that you really have no control over what happens in your life and that, as the late, great George Carlin used to say, "We are all living in a dog's dream." 

Because it's true. Those cards, which I personally handed to the announcer in the correct order, were mixed up by some unknown force. The announcer was reading about Joe Blow's beautifully cut sports jacket while I paraded back and forth. "Joe Blow," said the announcer, giving me the eye. I only heard my name and kept on twirling, eventually wrapping the extra four inches of the dress around my ankles and tripping.

Joe Blow came out, took my arm and gently led me off the stage.

My debut as an Alka Seltzer went harmlessly, although we finished 30 seconds before the music ended.

Not to worry, I was already in the depths of depression. I sulked around for days. I was not a star. I could not follow simple directions. I could not sing. I could not dance. I could not even find center stage without two people helping me.

But then, two weeks after this debacle I was approached by a six year old girl in the lobby of my apartment building. She had been staring at me for a long time and I finally asked her if something was wrong.

"Weren't you an Alka Seltzer at Kenwood High School," she asked.

You know, one of the prices of fame is you can't go ANYWHERE without being recognized.

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Cheryl Kravitz, President of CRK Communications, is respected nationally for her expertise in community relations, motivational speaking, crisis communications, media relations, media training, feature writing, diversity training, fund development and issues management. You can contact her at: Crk725@aol.com.